


stand by you

by panderegla



Series: Stand By You [2]
Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study-ish, Falling In Love, Feelings Realization, Introspection, M/M, alfyn is just a huge sap, just alfyn realizing that he's in love and listing all the reasons why, other travelers are present but don't have speaking lines or aren't as relevant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:46:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25891552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panderegla/pseuds/panderegla
Summary: Therion turns and catches his eye, catching him off guard for a second before his expression eases into a look of calm indifference, eyebrow raised in a question. “What?”Alfyn is quiet for a while, lips parted as the realization of it all sets in, as everything clicks into place in his head and it all starts to make sense, as his stomach churns and his chest burns and his throat closes up, mouth suddenly going dry as he stares back at the vision that is Therion with wide eyes, seeing him with a new clarity, a new understanding.I just realized that I’m in love with you, he wants to say.
Relationships: Alfyn Greengrass/Therion
Series: Stand By You [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1849405
Comments: 13
Kudos: 85





	stand by you

**Author's Note:**

> something short and sweet and altogether sappy
> 
> title of this work and the series it belongs to comes from [the song of the same name by Official Hige Dandism](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=22mOCjkwQjM)

It starts with the stark white of his hair.

It always stands out even in the daylight, but in the nighttime, it glows like the moon. Therion doesn’t know and Alfyn knows that he would never allow it if he knew, but sometimes, when dark dreams send him hurtling back to the waking world with a start, the apothecary would turn and stare at the mess of white hair in the sleeping pack nearby, watching as a soft breeze tousled it while its owner slept.

If he squints hard enough, he could even make out Therion’s face beneath. Eyes closed, mouth slightly open, breathing in a low steady rhythm that told Alfyn that he’s too deep into sleep to notice him staring. And yet, Alfyn has no doubt that if he so much as made a sound near him, the thief would be awake in an instant with his dagger already pressed against Alfyn’s throat.

But here, in the silent calm before the dawn, when the sky is the darkest and nary a thing stirs beyond the borders of their makeshift campsite, Alfyn sees Therion at his most peaceful. He turns over in his pack and watches the way Therion’s hair shines as if it were the moon itself, entrapping whatever light it could get within its strands and turning that light into its own.

Alfyn wonders dimly if moonlight would feel soft to the touch, or if it, like sunlight, would simply pass through his fingers. But as he continues pondering the thought, the dark hands of sleep start to push his eyelids shut until the thoughts of soft strands of hair and pale moonlight are no more.

Come the morning, Alfyn acts like he had never thought of touching Therion’s hair even once, with Therion none the wiser. Still, even in his waking moments, a part of Alfyn longs to reach out and feel it between his fingers, if only to lay his thoughts of it to rest. But he knows that getting that close to Therion without fear of consequence was a privilege he did not yet have, so Alfyn keeps his thoughts to himself and maintains a good distance, safe from the sharp lash of Therion’s ire but still near enough that he wouldn’t lose sight of him.

And from fleeting thoughts of Therion’s moonlight hair, Alfyn’s thoughts wander, as thoughts often do, to places he knows Therion would never want them to go.

He fixates on small things about Therion that he would never have paid much attention to if it were any other person. Things like the quiet intensity in his green eyes, a forest-green storm that was always looking ahead, always fixed on a point no one else could see.

His fingers, so slender they almost looked delicate, but which could pick locks on chests and doors with a nimble deftness that was mesmerizing to watch, a kind of smooth and effortless grace that Alfyn was convinced only Therion knew how to do.

There’s that wry smile of his, often accompanied by a slight tilt of the head, or the raising of an eyebrow, arms crossed over his chest, and the teasing lilt of his voice, lacking the usual bite of his words and betraying a certain fondness that Therion is loathe to admit out loud.

There’s the way he grabs Alfyn’s arm to stop him from running into things or tripping, the gruff sort of grunt he makes when Alfyn thanks him, the way he averts his eyes like so, and how Alfyn could tell that he was embarrassed without needing for him to say it.

The small secret smile that blooms across Therion’s face when he’s petting Linde and when he thinks no one is watching, the way he spoils the snow leopard with attention when everyone else’s back is turned, everyone else but Alfyn who can’t keep the grin from his face when he notices how much Therion is enjoying himself.

The way his eyes light up when he’s tasting something sweet, sparkling with an almost child-like wonder as he digs into his dessert with a newfound gusto, and Alfyn knows he would have scarfed the thing down whole if he could, were it not for the fact that people were watching and he couldn’t very well put his emotions on display like that.

The quiet attention he gives Alfyn when the apothecary goes off again about an herb or a plant that he found in the forest, Alfyn knowing that Therion couldn’t care less about what he was talking about but still listening to him all the same, something that Alfyn appreciates greatly.

The nights where Therion stays up late with Alfyn to replenish his supply of concoctions, sitting by the fire with his mortar and pestle, Therion watching him work, close and yet still distant, occasionally prodding Alfyn awake when the apothecary dozes off.

It’s the odd breath of laughter that you have to listen for to hear, otherwise Therion will act like he never uttered it in the first place. It’s the way he offers his shawl or his scarf when Alfyn gets cold, face turned away to hide the flush on his cheeks, but his hands firm as he pushes the cloth into Alfyn’s hands. It’s the way he yells at his teammates in the heat of battle, easily mistaken for anger or exasperation to an untrained ear, but which only sounds like worry to the members of their party.

It’s the way Therion scrunches up his face in distaste when he eats something he doesn’t like, the way his eyes went wide and was rendered speechless the first time Ophilia had shown him how to make rabbits out of apple slices, the way he quietly helps H’aanit prepare the meals she’s hunted without any urging from her or anyone else, the way he rolls his eyes and humors Cyrus when the professor goes off on one of his tangents, the way he teases Tressa like an older brother though neither of them would ever admit aloud that they cared for each other, and the way his voice sounds when he calls Alfyn “medicine man”; never by name, for some odd reason, but in a tone that was as close to affectionate as someone as prickly as Therion could get.

And it’s the sum of all these things, and plenty more, that multiply and coalesce into one indescribable feeling – intangible yet ever-present, that starts with Therion’s moonlight hair and ends with the rare sight of his smile.

It is gentle and kind – in the way it makes Alfyn’s entire being feel light, in the way it gives him giggles like nothing else can, in the way it fills his heart with warmth and fondness and pure joy at even just the thought of Therion. And yet, it is sadistic and cruel – in the way it keeps Alfyn on his toes and has him rethinking every word and action, in the way his chest aches with every ghost-like brush of their hands or fingers, in the way it keeps him up at night wondering if Therion knows what it feels like too and if it is tearing him apart as much as it is doing to him.

It is a longing and a yearning that Alfyn has never felt before, a desire that burns in his chest, his stomach and low in his belly, made of nothing but the absolute want, the _need_ , to be close to Therion, to see him smile, to hear him laugh, to hear him say his name in a way that sets him apart from others, in a way that tells Alfyn that Therion longs for him too.

In retrospect, Alfyn should have known what this feeling was long before they even reached Goldshore. The feeling isn’t entirely unfamiliar to him, only the intensity with which he feels it. And even if he’s never felt the exact feeling before this, he’s seen it plenty of times.

Seen it in the eyes of his mother when she talked about his father who had died before he was born, teary yet fond and full of pride and happiness. Seen it in one elderly couple in Clearbrook who still gush and wax poetic about the day they met, other memories of their past now foggy and dim yet the memory of the first time they laid eyes on each other remaining bright and vivid despite all the years in between. Seen it in the way his own best friend Zeph had poured everything into a single letter, every possible feeling he had for a childhood friend into every single word, and the longing looks he sends to a city on the other side of the Middlesea, a flame that refuses to go out burning clearly in his eyes.

And yet, it takes Alfyn months and a whole journey through six of Orsterra’s eight regions for him to recognize that he’s in love. And it is here, on the beach at Goldshore, that he finally realizes it, looking at the way the sunset casts half of Therion’s face in shadow, marveling at how even in broad daylight his hair still has a shine of its own, heart swelling with emotion and fingers twitching, aching, longing to reach out for him.

Therion turns and catches his eye, catching him off guard for a second before his expression eases into a look of calm indifference, eyebrow raised in a question. “What?”

Alfyn is quiet for a while, lips parted as the realization of it all sets in, as everything clicks into place in his head and it all starts to make sense, as his stomach churns and his chest burns and his throat closes up, mouth suddenly going dry as he stares back at the vision that is Therion with wide eyes, seeing him with a new clarity, a new understanding.

 _I just realized that I’m in love with you,_ he wants to say. And perhaps more than just wanting to let Therion know, Alfyn wants Therion to say that he’s in love with him too. He wants him to meet him halfway, to close the distance between their bodies, to crush their lips together and to not feel any resistance from Therion, to feel nothing but his own eagerness and want reflected in the way Therion kisses him back, in the way Therion whispers his name against his lips, in the way his eyes burn with the same desire.

But instead, Alfyn laughs, easy and cowardly, and says, “Nothin’.”

Therion frowns, suspicious, but thankfully leaves it be, turning his gaze back towards the ocean before them, looming large and endless and leading to lands that neither of them could even imagine.

“Hey,” Alfyn says, “you ever taken a swim in the ocean before?”

Therion blinks up at him, eyes going wide for a second. “I…” His voice trails off, uncertain, and he looks away, hiding an embarrassed flush. “I…never learnt how.”

Alfyn bursts out laughing and Therion shoots him an indignant look. “What? It’s not like it had any particular use in the Cliftlands.”

“There are still rivers,” Alfyn says to which Therion scowls and looks away.

Alfyn smiles, soft and warm and full of words unspoken, before he walks up to him and holds out both of his hands. Therion draws back slightly, glancing between Alfyn’s face and hands with trepidation. “What’s this for?”

Alfyn grins. “Just trust me.”

The look in Therion’s eyes tells Alfyn that he doesn’t trust him, something that sends a painful pang through his chest, but it’s not entirely unexpected, and Alfyn has long since accepted that getting close to Therion means getting pricked by his many barbs, getting hurt in places he never knew could hurt, whether the thief intended for it to hurt or not.

But, as Therion hesitantly reaches out both of his hands, and as Alfyn smiles and closes his fingers over his, a small sliver of hope awakens inside him, a promising whisper in his ear that tells him that maybe, with a bit of luck, the hurt won’t last forever. One day, perhaps, Therion could learn to let down the barbs he surrounds himself with and let Alfyn in, to willingly allow him to see him at his most vulnerable without Alfyn even having to ask.

But of course, that would take time. And being in love with someone like Therion, Alfyn realizes, means having the patience and the willingness to put in the work.

“Wh-What are you doing?” Therion says in alarm as Alfyn begins leading him by the hands towards where the water met the shoreline.

“Relax!” Alfyn says, walking backwards now as they drew closer to the waves. “It’ll be all right.”

Therion’s hands twist in Alfyn’s grasp but only weakly, not enough to give Alfyn reason to let go, and despite the apprehension in his eyes, Therion puts up no other resistance as Alfyn leads him into the water. Their feet were already bare, having abandoned their footwear somewhere up the beach in favor of feeling the golden sand between their toes, and Therion flinches as the cold water envelopes his feet, hands stiffening as Alfyn leads him deeper, till the water was well beyond the hems of their pants.

“See?” Alfyn says, slowly letting go of Therion’s hands. “Not so bad, is it?”

Therion sways on the spot before he regains his balance, frowning down at the water around his feet. His figure looks so slight like that, as if one medium-sized wave could knock him over, and for once, he looks worried and definitely not in his element.

Therion takes a step forward, then another, then another, till he starts getting the hang of it, starts getting used to resisting the current, and it’s all too damned cute for Alfyn to take. Finally, Therion exhales and looks up to meet Alfyn’s eyes. “You know this doesn’t really count as swimming, right?”

“Oh I know,” Alfyn says with a bright grin. “I just wanted to prepare you for this.” He bends down, dips his fingers into the water, then without warning flicks it upward, sending saltwater smack into Therion’s face.

Alfyn laughs as Therion splutters before staring at Alfyn in incredulity. Then it quickly changes into a look of tranquil rage as he attempts to return the favor, splashing Alfyn but not high enough to completely drench him.

“Haha, nice try!” Alfyn laughs and splashes Therion again. This time, Therion covers his face with an arm, though it gets him wet nonetheless, and retaliates with a splash of his own, this one much better aimed than the last. And with that, it’s all-out war from both sides, Therion catching on quickly to the technique, and soon he’s pushing Alfyn backwards, gaining the upper ground, a triumphant smile on his face when he finally succeeds in dousing Alfyn in seawater.

“Ha!” he cries out in victory, and for a moment, Alfyn can’t move, transfixed by the sight of such a rare and delightful expression on Therion’s face to care about anything else other than imprinting the image into his memory forever.

Then he laughs and launches himself headfirst towards Therion, relishing the second of wide-eyed surprise and horror that passes over Therion’s face, before Alfyn barrels straight into him, wrapping his arms around Therion’s waist and sending them both toppling down to the waves, now completely drenched from head to toe.

Alfyn is the first to lift his head, laughing breathlessly as he pushes himself up onto his hands and knees. “Ahh, sorry ‘bout that, bud! Couldn’t help myself!”

Below him, Therion’s eyes are closed, his body motionless, his hair floating around his face like a halo.

“Therion?” Alfyn reaches down to slap his cheek lightly with no response. “Hey, Therion?”

Alfyn sits up, now more frantic than before, as he grabs Therion by the shoulders and starts shaking him. “Therion?! Can you hear me?! Therion!”

Therion’s eyes pop open and he spews water directly into Alfyn’s face. He smirks at Alfyn’s surprised expression before Alfyn lets him drop back into the sea. Therion makes a noise not unlike a cat being thrown into water, spluttering and flailing his arms about.

He scrambles up into a sitting position, gasping for air before turning to face Alfyn. They remain staring at each other for three seconds before Alfyn aims a splash of water into Therion’s face and grins.

“Now we’re even,” he says, getting to his feet.

Therion, still sitting in the water, sighs and pushes the sopping wet mop of his hair away from his face and Alfyn’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of the thin scar running straight down from the top of Therion’s brow to his cheek. Therion realizes his mistake as soon as he catches sight of Alfyn’s expression and quickly pulls his fringe down over the left side of his face, pulling himself up to his feet and pushing past Alfyn back towards the shore, the childish glee from before now forgotten.

Alfyn doesn’t ask about it and only follows Therion to the inn, laughing at the faces of their companions when the both of them arrive soaking wet. Therion immediately makes for the bathroom in their shared room, shedding his heavy scarf and shawl along the way, while Alfyn sits by the fireplace, taking off his jacket, vest, and shirt and draping them over the back of a chair to dry off by the fire. After some thought, he goes to pick up Therion’s shawl and scarf from where the thief had discarded them on the floor and brings them over to the fire as well.

Before long, Therion emerges from the bathroom, shirtless, with a towel draped lazily over his hair. Alfyn doesn’t ask about his other scars either, averting his eyes respectfully when Therion walks over to the fireplace and squats down in front of it, drying his hair off with the towel.

“H’aanit and Ophilia are cookin’ us some nice hot soup,” Alfyn says in an attempt to break the silence. “So we should prob’ly head on down once we’ve dried ourselves off.”

Therion grunts then sneezes right after, the sound sending a little jolt of joy through Alfyn. It was simply too _cute_.

“Whoa, didja catch a cold, Therion?” Alfyn teases and Therion glares up at him. “Thanks to you.”

“Aw, don’t say that! It was all in good fun!” Alfyn laughs good-naturedly. “I know you had fun back there.”

Therion is quiet for moment. “Maybe I did.”

Alfyn nearly falls off his chair. “Did you just admit to havin’ fun?”

“Don’t get used to it,” Therion says gruffly.

Alfyn chuckles, letting their banter lapse into comfortable silence as they wait for themselves and their clothes to dry. And it’s nice, having this one small moment between the two of them, relaxing in front of a fire with the promise of good food to come. It reminds Alfyn of childhood swims in the river with Zeph and Mercedes, going home afterwards with his clothes all wet and getting scolded by his mother while she cooked him a hot broth over the fire, then sitting down at the dinner table with a towel still draped over his shoulders and the beginnings of a cold clogging up his nose, but laughing all the while as he recounted the day’s adventures to his mother who would listen with a smile on her face, the scolding from earlier now a thing of the past.

But this moment with Therion is different. The air feels charged somehow, as if something heavy hung above their heads, threatening to crash down on them both. Alfyn has an idea what it is but he doesn’t give voice to it and soon their clothes are dry enough to be comfortable in again and Therion hands him his shirt from where it was drying on the chair.

Alfyn is just about to thank him when he notices the way Therion’s eyes linger on his bare chest, a single subtle glance that is gone in a second but which ignites something in Alfyn, a lingering heat and perhaps even just a little bit of hope as they both pull their shirts back on and make their way out of the room to the inn’s dining room, where Ophilia and H’aanit had made enough soup for everyone, Cyrus and Tressa heartily digging into their own bowls by the time Alfyn and Therion arrive.

And this is nice too, sitting around a table with everyone like this, chatting and laughing about nothing and everything at the same time. It’s comforting and predictable and it’s the closest thing to home that Alfyn’s got this far away from Clearbrook. And of course, Therion’s there. He’s quiet for most of the conversation, and he occasionally quips at Tressa and Cyrus, witty and sharp-tongued as ever, and there’s that smirk of his, that smugness that lets everyone know he’s won an argument, that lazy way he leans against the back of his chair with his arms crossed over his chest, drawing attention to the cut of his figure now in full view without his ever-present scarf and shawl.

And Alfyn’s heart swells and thumps against his chest through it all, remembering and repeating in his mind, that he’s in love.

He’s in love, he’s in love, he’s in love.

And somehow, saying it like this over and over again is mind-reeling and sobering at the same time, like he’s the first person to ever discover what it means to fall in love with someone, and it drives him crazy not being able to tell anyone about this life-changing revelation, not even the object of his affections.

But, as he lies awake later that night, watching Therion sleep on the bed across from him, and watching as his hair catches the light of a stray moonbeam from the window above his bed, he feels all breath leave his lungs again and he thinks that he can wait. He can be patient.

If it’s for Therion, he knows it’ll all be worth it.

This of course doesn’t stop him from stealing glances at the thief every now and again or even smiling wistfully at him while he isn’t looking. As it turns out, he’s not as subtle as he thinks he is because Therion catches him in the act the next day as they’re leaving Goldshore, turning his head so quickly that Alfyn has no time to wipe his ridiculous lovelorn grin off his face.

“What are you smirking at?” Therion snaps, though his words are devoid of their usual bite.

“Nothin’,” Alfyn says but holds Therion’s gaze. “I’m with you every step of the way, bud.”

Therion raises his eyebrows and Alfyn almost regrets the way the last sentence came out of nowhere. Almost. But Therion only grunts and faces the road ahead, following H’aanit and Tressa’s lead as they begin the trek through the Coastlands.

And Alfyn won’t pretend that it doesn’t hurt as well. He won’t pretend that there isn’t a hidden thorn for every stray moment of happiness, that for every moment that makes his insides flutter, there are moments that scrambles up his stomach for an entirely different reason.

And he won’t pretend that he isn’t scared. Because in truth, he’s terrified. He’s scared of Therion pulling away, of Therion seeing him differently, of Therion finding out before he’s ready to tell him. But more so than that, he’s terrified of being met with nothing but indifference, of Therion just not caring at all, and even just the thought of it chills Alfyn to the bone.

It’s a dizzying, frightening, wonderful mix of emotions that sends Alfyn’s mind reeling, sends explosions straight into his veins, makes him light-headed and fills his senses with nothing but Therion, Therion _, Therion_.

It becomes hard to hide sometimes, when they’re alone, when he catches Therion staring at him and his heart jumps in his chest, when he’s entranced by the smooth movement of Therion’s wrist as he plays with his dagger, when he lies awake at night staring up at the stars above, willing into shape the possibility of Therion ever wanting him the same way that Alfyn wants him.

And the feeling grows with every passing day, with every step they took together as traveling companions, every lighthearted exchange of words, every surreptitious glance when the other isn’t looking. His fear grows and his worries grow and both he and Therion grow, never truly the same people they were the day before, and Alfyn’s love grows till he feels like his heart could swallow his entire body whole.

But his patience grows as well and little by little, he knows that he’s making progress.

It’s in the way Therion’s eyes soften just a fraction when he looks at him, in the way his words no longer hold the same barbed meanings they did before. It’s in the way he no longer tenses up when Alfyn slings his arm across his shoulders, in the annoyed but altogether resigned “tch” sound that he makes, in the way Alfyn could see the laughter dancing in his eyes before they leave his mouth.

All of these things and plenty others meld together to make one more intangible feeling that sets Alfyn’s heart aflame and keeps him putting one foot in front of the other every day, that keeps him holding on to his feelings for Therion like a lifeline, making good on his promise to stay with him every step of the way.

This time, Alfyn knows what it is, recognizes it immediately in the way Therion begins to lift his gaze upwards, no longer staring down at the ground as often as he used to, staring at that distant point that no one else but he can see.

It’s hope.

And it’s hope that Alfyn really holds on to, hope that he knows Therion is holding on to as well, and it’s hope that keeps him moving forward, keeps him standing by Therion’s side, keeps him holding out a hand for Therion to take any time he needs it, any time he feels he’s ready, and it’s hope that keeps Alfyn Greengrass so irrevocably, undeniably, maddeningly in love with Therion.

**Author's Note:**

> take a shot everytime i compare therion's hair to the moon or the stars in my fics
> 
> stan alfion follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/kalihimpan) for more updates on this series <3


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